The Adventure of the Gold Locket
by EtherDoc
Summary: Sherlock is on the case and big brother sees all in this adventure at Uni. Lots of references to Doyle's stories. Sherlolly-ish. Very true to character. First meeting between Lestrade and Sherlock. As one reviewer wrote: Like AU but not really. More of a prequel to the show that makes a lot of sense and explains Sherlock's relationship with Molly.
1. Chapter 1

The flame from the Bunsen burner glowed bright blue as gas hissed through the line. There was the initial odor of methyl mercaptan and then it faded. Molly let her fingers rest lightly together on the table as she waited.

"If you want an accurate temperature I suggest a thermocouple," a voice said from the table behind her. Molly stared at her hands and didn't reply. The mixture began to simmer and she adjusted the flow of propane before sitting back in her stool again.

"This is a bit simple for advanced chemistry," Sherlock said. He moved to the stool besides her and scowled at her experiment like it was something offensive.

"Don't touch that!" she said quickly, slapping at his hand as it reached for her samples. Molly took a deep breath and marched over to the supply cupboard. She practically threw the nitrile gloves in his smug face before sitting down again.

"Oh I see!" he said, grinning as he donned the gloves. The sound of the rubber slapping against his skin made her cheeks flush and Molly quickly ducked into the fume hood again. Sherlock's hands flashed past her. Before she could stop him he had pinched the residue and sprinkled it directly into the flame, briefly turning the blue fire to green.

"That isn't how it's supposed to be done," Molly said. She bit her lip then went back to mixing the now cooling solution.

"Tell me Molly Hooper – how should it be done?" he said close to her ear.

"Safely," Molly said in a whisper. Her eyes remained firmly on the glassware under the fume hood.

"Boring," was the immediate reply.

Molly took a deep breath and concentrated on slowly adding the barium chloride to the test tube, the cloudy solution confirming the presence of barium sulphate.

"Really Molly, forensics? Dull. You'll hate it," Sherlock said with a ghost of a smile at his lips.

"It's interesting."

"No it isn't."

"Alright it isn't," Molly said, covering her giggles with two hands like a school girl. She forced her hands back down to her sides where they clutched at her lab coat. He would ask for something now. He was only charming when he wanted something from her. Molly ignored the voice screaming in her head how ridiculous it all was as her heart beat furiously against her chest and her head slowly filled with cotton.

Sherlock threw himself back down on the stool and buried his head in his arms.

"I have to go home for Christmas," his muffled voice said against the table top.

"What?" she asked surprised.

"Christmas. With Mycroft," he said with his eyes pinched tightly closed. "The family must celebrate his glorious rise in government. Assistant to a parliamentary private secretary. Mummy is so proud."

Molly rinsed her glassware slowly under the sink. Sherlock's oldest brother had finished his dissertation that spring. Something with British foreign affairs. No one would ever read it. According to Sherlock it had been confiscated along with his thesis advisor. The thesis advisor had been released the following day. The thesis remained in custody after being declared a state secret.

Mycroft always called her Miss Hooper and gave her that tight smile when he came to see Sherlock. Once he had found her in the library where she'd fallen asleep over her text books. She had given a shriek of surprise when she opened her eyes and found him looming over her, hand stretched as if he'd been about to shake her awake but couldn't quite bring himself to touch her.

"Add a decanter of brandy to that book and you'd have the perfect evening," he said with a half-smile.

All solemn charm, dressed up to the nines even at midnight in smooth slacks and a button up shirt, he'd looked every bit the politician. He did so worry about his brother, he had told her, and would she be ever so kind to let him know if Sherlock started behaving oddly, disappeared for a few days, or seemed otherwise not himself. And then Mycroft had turned and started walking away like she had agreed, like she wasn't still rubbing the grit from her eyes and trying to get her fuzzy brain to process information again.

She had almost called him back again, had opened up her mouth to say no she wouldn't. But she supposed he already knew that if he was anything like Sherlock. So she had let him go, watching the lift doors close and hide those raised eyebrows and chin.

Molly finished cleaning up the lab space then grabbed her purse to follow Sherlock's retreating figure down the hall towards the refectory. They sat across from one another as she picked at her sandwich and tried not to look at the head of dark curls bent over a thick book.

"What are you reading?" she finally asked.

"A Treatise on the Binomial Theorem," he said without looking up.

"Seriously?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and closed the book with a thump.

"Certainly not. Who has anything new to say about the Binomial Theorem at this late date?" he said.

They left together for the lecture hall, Sherlock walking slightly ahead of her instead of next to her. He was lost in his own head but his eyes constantly darted to the people walking past them. How did he see past the arms full of books and papers, the faded jeans, the conformity of hair and clothing and even speech? All Molly saw were students at uni.

"It's strange you know. What you do. I don't mind. It's just… odd," she had confessed to him once after he'd gone through a painful analysis of her childhood issues, dredging up memories of her father and a life left far behind.

"It's in the past. Why does it still bother you?" Sherlock had said as he slowly exhaled the smoke from his cigarette. Molly's nose twitched at the smell, hearing her father's voice, her head full of memories and ghosts and hurt.

"Because it's never really in the past," Molly said in a whisper.

Sherlock took a long drag, watching her, thinking. Finally he nodded.

"You could forget it. That's what I do," he said.

Even with her limited observational skills Molly could see that Sherlock came from money and a loving home. As painful as he claimed his childhood had been Molly knew there'd been no abuse. The only thing that had made youth difficult had been perhaps Sherlock himself. She wondered what kind of memories he could possibly need to shed.

"You erase your bad memories?" Molly asked. Sherlock had grimaced, mouth thinning. She didn't normally ask personal questions and they didn't talk much about the past or home. But he had started it, she told herself.

"Sometimes. If they aren't important," he said as he ground the fag into the ground with one foot. "If they're causing me to lose focus or interfering with the work."

The work was his passion. He had taken the ordinary and made it different and fascinating. It was the one thing he would always talk to her about. The work was his and his alone, something that no one could take away from him. He protected it like one would a child, with careful rules and boundaries and high walls. Molly thought he was an artist. He certainly acted like one - with his sudden angry outbursts, bouts of dark depression, and carefully selected social circle.

"If they make you feel something," Molly said carefully.

Sherlock had looked at her down that long nose, mirroring an expression much like his brother Mycroft liked to use, and she'd known she was right.

"When I was younger my mother fell in love with someone who wasn't my father. Father chose blindness but it was impossible for me not to see. Everywhere I looked there were traces. I have to live with this other man forever and he isn't even alive anymore. Emotions are good for one thing and one thing only - understanding motive. I can't afford to give in to sentiment. It's distracting and it throws doubt on the mental results. Emotions get in the way," he said dismissively.

"Emotions make us human," she replied.


	2. Chapter 2

They arrived at the lecture hall ten minutes later than they should have. Molly hated the constant lack of punctuality but it was one thing she'd given up in her friendship with Sherlock. He had no sense of urgency when it came to keeping a schedule – not when he could be playing the violin, or thinking, or smoking. At first she had left without him but then he might just wag it altogether. And it was tedious to sit through an entire hour of biochemistry without him there to pass her little notes about the young girl in the front row having an affair with her much older professor or the boy sitting next to her being in the closet about his homosexuality because his parents were Catholic.

Usually a late arrival meant sneaking in a side door and slipping into a back seat. Instead they were greeted by a large group of their peers waiting anxiously behind yellow lines of tape stretched across the doorway. Besides her Sherlock was rubbing his hands together and grinning like a maniac.

"What's happened?" she asked.

"Murder!" he declared in a loud voice, startling several students. One girl whirled around, tears streaming from her eyes, to glare at him. She leaned over to whisper to a friend and they both turned from them with a look of disgust. Molly felt her cheeks burning.

"You can't possibly know that. Are you guessing?" Molly said as quietly as she could.

"I don't guess. That destroys any hopes of remaining logical," Sherlock said, lowering his voice. "I'm deducing based on facts. It's a wicked world. You know that Molly. What other possible reason could there be for holding the class here even though the body has already been removed?"

Sherlock pointed over to the closed doors or the ambulance. Two technicians were casually leaning against the side of the van and talking, their faces grim. Several police officers were interviewing students, Molly saw now. The two girls that had been startled by Sherlock's declaration of murder were talking with an officer and suddenly pointed over to where they were standing. The officer looked up pointedly then made a motion with his fingers for them to come over.

"Excellent!" Sherlock said, and Molly followed his long strides across to where the officer was waiting for them.

"I'm Sergeant Lestrade. Name?" he asked, holding a pen expectantly between his fingers.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes."

"You live in the dorms?" Lestrade asked.

"Let's skip the preliminaries. You have the facts. I am capable of recognizing which ones are important. If we work together you can take the credit for solving a puzzling murder and I can briefly escape the tedium of university life. A fair trade. Don't be stupid. I have no motive and a solid alibi."

Lestrade put the handcuffs back into his pocket and cleared his throat. His eyes swept over Sherlock, taking him in. Molly did the same, willing Lestrade to see past the unkempt hair and half sneer on his lips. Sherlock wanted to help. Why couldn't he just say that?

"Don't think because you're minted you have immunity," Lestrade said. "I would arrest you this second if I thought you were guilty."

"Which you don't," Sherlock said calmly.

"You should know withholding knowledge about a crime is against the law."

"I have nothing to give you until I have the facts," Sherlock said, folding his arms behind his back.

Lestrade shook his head at Sherlock.

"I don't have time for this. I have a job to do," he said.

"Your job is to see justice done," Sherlock answered.

Molly looked from one man to the other. Lestrade's face was screwed up in anger, making him look something like a rat. His eyes were dark and angry from the unconventional turn of conversation. This wasn't how most suspects responded, Molly was sure. If she had been accused of involvement in a murder she would probably be in tears, not glaring down at the Sergeant with open disgust. Molly couldn't think of one thing to say to defend the talented young man behind his mask of contempt.

"Mary Whitney," Sherlock said, breaking the silence. "Aged 58, died suddenly this afternoon of what appeared to be heart failure while meeting with a student. Normally this wouldn't warrant a toxicology screening, except that Professor Whitney recently inherited a large sum of money."

"Bloody hell. Feck did you know all that? Have you been listening in on the radio?" Greg asked, running a hand through his brown hair.

"Don't be ridiculous. There's nothing anyone at the Yard can say that's worth my listening to it. Professor Whitney often took hypertension medication before lecturing, so most students will assume it was a heart attack. Given that the body has been moved already the death was recent but before the lesson began, which is when Professor Whitney often met with students. Given these facts a student is your prime suspect."

The area was beginning to thin as students walked away together in small groups. Sherlock looked at their faces that passed as if looking for additional clues a death only he and Lestrade found mysterious. Molly felt uncomfortably aware of how unnecessary her presence was at this point yet felt compelled to stay, even if it was just to offer silent support.

"How did you know about the inheritance? Go on," Lestrade said after a moment.

"Professor Whitney is single – no wedding ring or talk of a significant other, and lives alone. Recently she took a short personal leave of absence. When she came back she was wearing new clothing and significantly more jewelry. Although she said she'd been ill she had gained 5 pounds during her time away," Sherlock said.

Sherlock waited while Lestrade processed what he'd rattled off. The Sergeant opened his mouth several times to ask a question, then closed it again as he considered what to say. Molly thought he was close to telling Sherlock to piss off.

"So who did it then? And how?" Lestrade asked.

"Well that is a mystery," Sherlock said.

"So you don't know." The look of screwed up anger was back.

"Please, sir," Molly said quietly. Lestrade looked startled as if he'd forgotten she was there.

"Who are you?" said Lestrade.

"I'm a classmate. Molly. Molly Hooper. Sherlock has this talent. He can tell you all about people. The things they do that they don't want anyone to know about. Secrets no one else knows. He calls it the science of observing but really it's an art. It's deduction."

"Thank you Molly," Sherlock said in a voice that was anything but thankful. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her around, then gave the small of her back a little push. "I'll see you later."

Molly left them there talking, wandering down the winding path that led to her dorm room, barely noticing that the cloudy sky had finally cleared up and the sun was out. The grass was lush this time of year and tempting under the warm sun. Molly realized she was exhausted. The previous evening had been wasted trying to get through an intro to forensics textbook. Sherlock was right. The material was boring. The chemistry involved was basic and the steps to completing an analysis were concrete and specific. There was no room for creativity but also no margin for error. It felt stifling.

Molly threw herself on the bed and grabbed for her bear. She let comforting soft feel and familiar scent lull her into a relaxed half sleep. With the lecture cancelled, maybe permanently, she had a few hours to herself. She would write a letter to Charlie, or give her mom a call, she thought. Then she was gently sleeping, a thin figure hugging a stuffed animal tight to her chest.


	3. Chapter 3

"Molly! Molly wake up."

His perfect lips were too close to hers for this to be anything but a dream. The look in his eyes was dark and intense. She lifted a hand to run fingers through that dark hair and felt him stiffen beneath her touch.

"Molly," he said flatly, eyes guarded. She yanked her fingers back as if they had been burned, her system flooding with adrenaline and hormones and embarrassment. She buried her head into her pillow and willed herself to stop breathing.

"I hate you," she said into her pillow and he laughed, breaking the tension. "All the good ones are gay."

"It's not like that," said Sherlock slowly. "I don't dislike women; I distrust them."

"What about me?" Molly lifted her head high enough to ask, still not looking at him.

"What about you?"

"Are we friends?" Molly asked.

"Our relationship doesn't need a label, Molly."

She turned her head away from him towards the window. The sun was setting and the sky was lit a brilliant orange. She hadn't been napping for long.

"So what's up?" she asked her wall. Sherlock shifted on the bed besides her. She wondered what her roommates would think if they walked in now. Boys were not allowed in the girls' dormitory and yet Sherlock managed to sneak into her room several times a week without getting caught. Sometimes it was through her second story window. Once he had dressed up as a woman, claimed to be a distant cousin, and spent the night on her floor. She had found the shade of lipstick he chose both disturbing and distracting.

"Women like to keep secrets," Sherlock said.

Molly felt her head swim. She didn't think how she felt was secret. She closed her eyes tightly against the thought of him kissing her and kissing her until she couldn't breathe or think or care.

"And Mary Whitney had a big secret," Sherlock continued.

Molly pushed the mental image of their entwined limbs firmly out of her brain and finally rolled over.

"Did the Sergeant tell you what it was?" she asked.

Sherlock looked pleased. He gave her that half smile that she loved and she grinned back at him.

"I deduced what it was from what Lestrade wasn't telling me," Sherlock said. "It's obvious he suspects a student. When I asked him if the family had been notified of death he told me that her daughter estranged herself from her mother after becoming pregnant by a freshman. The daughter took his name to her grave."

"I thought you only played deductions with me, Sherlock," a voice said from the doorway. Molly jumped up out of her bed.

Mycroft leaned against the doorjamb, all haughty arrogance. He looked from Molly to Sherlock and raised one delicate eyebrow.

"Should we expect a happy announcement soon?" he asked, looking pointedly at Molly's stomach. Molly covered her flat belly with two hands as if to hide it from view and tried not to cry.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock said furiously. "Apologize!"

"Ah, of course not - my mistake. Apologies, Miss Hooper," said Mycroft with almost believable sincerity. Molly felt her anger and shame rise up, one trying to beat the other as they clawed their way up her throat. This wasn't even about her, she knew. There was some secret message passing between the brothers as they stood glaring at one another.

Sherlock pushed past his brother, jostling him with one shoulder as stormed past.

"Good day, Miss Hooper," Mycroft intoned, and turned to follow.

Molly shoved the pillow over her mouth and yelled into it until her throat was sore while a voice in her head repeated over and over again that she was a bad girl, a very bad girl. She couldn't tell if it sounded more like her father or Mycroft.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had disappeared and although she was trying not to think about the Holmes brothers Molly was constantly reminded of them in the quiet murmurs of gossip that echoed through the halls. She poured over her textbooks and tried to ignore the chatter. Toxicology became her favorite subject. Then she found a new morbid curiosity. Molly had worked with cadavers before in her anatomy courses. This was to be her first autopsy.

There was nothing boring about the post-mortem examination. From the sleek disinfected metal of the cold dissection table to the first incision she was riveted. While some classmates turned away in disgust at the sound of the shears ripping open the chest cavity, Molly watched in fascination. Everyone was too caught up in the newness of the moment to notice that she, little mousy Molly, was watching every cut with growing excitement.

Here was the connection between those samples of urine and blood and hair: the body. The smell of formaldehyde was fading and Molly removed her face mask, letting it dangle around her neck as she took notes.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" a handsome graduate student asked. Molly could only nod.

When the three hours were past they were led out of the lab in a silent line. Molly ripped the face mask from her neck and grinned down at her notebook full of the autopsy details.

"New hobby? I approve," Sherlock said from over her shoulder.

"Back then?" Molly asked, closing the notebook quickly. Only Sherlock could bounce back into her life after several days and pick up like no time had passed. It was easy to fall into familiar patterns of friendship, if that was what they had. Sometimes he treated her almost kindly, like a brother might. Other times his cold dispassion reminded her of her father, and she would point to the nearest door until he left, taking that stomach revolting nonchalance with him.

"I didn't actually leave. I've just been busy," said Sherlock, falling into step besides her as she walked. "The toxicology report confirmed traces of potassium cyanide. A somewhat unimaginative poison but effective. I've interviewed the student who was with Professor Whitney's when she died. Lestrade refused to give me her name but she was easy to find. She claims they were alone when the professor starting complaining about feeling dizzy. She collapsed and was dead within minutes.

"Lestrade sent the remaining hypertension medication for testing. They all came back clean, meaning only one pill was poisoned. The secret, Molly, remember the secret! Professor Whitney had spoken in lecture about the loss of her daughter but more important was what she failed to say: that her daughter left behind a young son, her grandson. "

Sherlock held out his hand and the locket dangled from his fingers.

"Motive. There had to be motive. Professor Whitney had come into an inheritance. Tell me Molly, who would benefit most from the untimely death of our victim? Certainly not a small child. The mother is deceased so that leaves one person!"

She took the locket gently between her fingers and opened it up.

"Sherlock, where's the photo?" Molly asked suspiciously.

"Don't look at me like that. I didn't take it. The thought of a grandson she would never know was too painful to bear. She destroyed the phone in an attempt to forget the past," Sherlock said, snatching the locket back.

"It doesn't seem possible, that you could figure all this out from so little," Molly said.

"It's not only possible, it's probable," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "Notice the groove marks around the edge of the frame. She used a safety pin to pry the picture out."

"That's amazing, Sherlock."

"Ta, Molly."


	5. Chapter 5

Molly thought she knew Sherlock. Sherlock was the friend that had stayed in her dorm until her fever broke. In his freshly pressed clothing he had kept vigil by her bed with Bach while she drifted in and out of sleep. No one ever complained about the music, maybe because he played so perfectly it sounded like a recording.

The Sherlock that Molly knew was brilliant and awkward and spent a ridiculous amount of time on his hair. Once she had walked in while he was winking to himself in front of her mirror.

"Practicing," he had dismissed with a wave of his hand, not at all embarrassed.

How did she get from there to hugging a weak cup of cafeteria tea with her hands while Sherlock recovered in a hospital bed?

Mycroft sat across from her in a wrinkled shirt. The creases and dark circles under his eyes made him look defeated. He clutched at his brolly and tried to act detached as he explained how Sherlock had "a slight problem with cocaine."

"He said he could forget anything. Why would he use drugs?" Molly asked.

"There are some things too substantial to be forgotten," Mycroft said with a sigh.

"Is this about your mother? I'm sorry. It's just that he told me about it and I thought…"

Molly paused as Mycroft's face grew colder and more distant.

"There's no cure for bad memories I'm afraid. But he does try," Mycroft said.

Mycroft managed to get her access to Sherlock and she slept curled up on a chair next to his bed. It was her turn to keep vigil, she thought right before her exhausted body pulled her under into the current of an uneasy sleep.

The morning sun made the white washed walls seem starker than they had the night before. Sherlock looked very pale with tubes running up and down his frail body. He was covered in one of those awful hospital gowns that were neither comfortable nor warm. Molly found an extra blanket above the sink and draped it over his still form. Hours passed.

She tried reading from her textbook but the sentences that formed refused to stick. She found herself going over the same material in an endless cycle until she thought she might die of frustration. Sherlock didn't need to read things twice. The information he needed was stored almost immediately in that solid cranium of his. She wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse considering what he'd said about his mother.

How would she feel if she knew every detail of her mother's lover without having ever met him or talked to him? What if the perfume her mother wore held layers of meaning? No child could do what Sherlock did now, but raw talent must have been present from a young age. Was this the first time he'd tried to use it to deduce unknown facts about someone, a harmless exercise turned gravely serious?

"Molly," Sherlock said quietly in his bed.

She glanced up from her book, not sure if she had really heard him.

"Molly," he repeated weakly. "Don't play deductions."

Molly blushed and ducked her head back into her book.

"Should I get the doctor?"

Sherlock shook his head and his fingers gently waved for her to come closer. Molly put the book on her chair and shuffled reluctantly over to him. She pulled a stool close to his bedside and sat down with her hands clasped, staring at the floor. He spoke softly into the room.

"It was the way she styled her hair. Normally it was in a chignon but she took to wearing it down. Then there was her choice in jewelry. She went from simple to more ornate. Diamond solitaire earrings instead of gold hoops. I was nine and curious about her changing behaviorisms. Eventually I followed her as she left the house wanting to glean more information from her routine. I recognized the home of a family friend, someone we all knew well. It didn't take long for me to figure out the details."

"What happened then?" Molly asked in a whisper, eyes wide.

"Nothing. My father never found out. If he did know he was very good at hiding it. The affair continued for the rest of that year and then it ended. I think Mycroft may have talked to mummy. He certainly had it figured out before I did."

Molly perched awkwardly over Sherlock's bed, unsure how to react. She knew he didn't want pity but the tears rolled down her face. She wiped them on her sleeve while Sherlock studied the ceiling.

"I'm so sorry," she said, sniffing. Molly wasn't sure if she was apologizing for the crying or offering her sympathy. She tried to stop crying because she knew he didn't like it.

"Molly I need your help," Sherlock said gently.

"Of course. Anything," she said.

"I'm somewhat indisposed at the moment. While I linger here a murderer runs free," Sherlock said.

"What do you want me to do?" Molly asked. She bit the inside of her cheek to quell the nervousness in her stomach.

He shoved a paper into her hands. On opening it she discovered was actually napkins taped together to the approximate size and shape of a sheet of paper.

It read:

FOUND!

Golden locket with photo inside.

Describe photo to claim locket.

Contact Molly Hooper, dorm 3.

AFTER 6 PM ONLY.

"We need to lure him out. He may be dangerous if cornered. Make sure you give a copy of this to Lestrade so he can have men stationed around your dormitory tonight."

Molly nodded and carefully folder up the flyer.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade adamantly refused to get involved until Molly told him she'd already taped up copies of the flyer on trees and poles across the campus. Then he ran his fingers through his hair and clenched his jaw before stomping over to his supervisor's office. Molly could see the older man shouting through the glass even if she couldn't hear him. Ten minutes later Lestrade was grabbing her arm and pushing her through the doors and back out into the street.

"I'm taking a big risk here. If he's wrong I'll never see a promotion. Not in the next ten years," Lestrade said.

"He's not wrong. He's never wrong," Molly replied.

"Here's the key and a map for a hotel where we keep our informants. I want you there until we catch this tosser," Lestrade said firmly.

Molly had every intention of staying put that night until there was a knock at the hotel door. Molly peered through the eye hole and then opened the lock. Sherlock was swaying on his feet. He steadied himself on the doorjamb then walked inside and fell onto the bed, clearly exhausted.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"Wake me in one hour," he muttered into the pillow, then his breathing became slow and even as he dropped off to sleep. Molly watched telly for the hour then shook him carefully awake.

"Lestrade said I should stay here," she tried. Sherlock waved away her worries.

"Without you we have no bait. He's clever and he'll be watching the dorms. We need you and the locket tonight at six. Lestrade has already agreed," Sherlock said.

"That gives us less than an hour," Molly said, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

"Then we'd better hurry," Sherlock replied.

Molly would never forget those long hours. She sat in her dorm room, barely breathing, the locket clenched in her hands. Every time she heard foot falls on the stairs her whole body would tense. The sun set and the world grew darker. In the distance she could hear the clock tower as it struck 8 then 9.

Suddenly there was shouting in the yard below.

"Oi, you there!" she heard Lestrade shout.

Molly ran to her window and threw open the shutters. There was a jumble of men and Sherlock was in the middle, his hand firmly holding onto the collar of a good-looking young man. The man's handsome face was contorted with anger and his right arm came up to take a swing. Sherlock ducked his head then came back to cuff the man sharply on his chin. The man collapsed and Sherlock was pulled away by Lestrade. The young man staggered and then fell to the lawn. Molly turned to run down the stairs, the locket still in her hands.

"Here is our man!" Sherlock said triumphantly. The young man had drawn himself up. The anger was replaced by resignation.

"I know you," Molly said in surprise. "Sherlock, he's in my anatomy lecture."

"I don't think he'll be finishing the term," Sherlock said.

"Can I have the locket at least?" the young man spoke. "It's why I risked coming."

"I don't think it has what you want. You have never met your son, have you? You hoped with his picture it would make it easier to find him and convince his caretakers of your identity. If the death of Professor Witney had gone unnoticed you'd be in a position to control the inherited funds. Instead I leave this matter to the police. I trust justice will be done."

"Justice?" the man shrieked. "It's easy to preach. Maybe you would feel differently if you were in my shoes. I wanted to be a good father and that slag wouldn't even let me see my own son. She moved to some hippie commune in America. All I want is to find him and bring him home!"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and then shook his head.

"Your logic is flawed. You gambled with someone's life and therefore your own. I've brought the facts to light. Let a jury decide on your fate."

Molly watched as the student was handcuffed and shoved into a waiting car. She hugged her arms close to herself and thought about parents and their children and the scars that relationship can leave. Sherlock looked suddenly uncertain as he stood beside her.

"I'm leaving, Molly. I need more stimulation than lectures and coursework can provide."

"What will you do?" Molly asked, thinking back to the frail frame lying in a hospital bed.

"I'm going to become the world's first consulting detective. The Yard obviously needs help. That man would have walked free if I wasn't involved. And you, Molly Hooper, what will you do?"

Molly smiled to herself.

"I want to become a doctor," she said. "Maybe I'll be a consultant too."

"In half the time you could become a specialist registrar and have a career. Don't stay here, Molly. Long years at uni dull personality and intelligence," Sherlock said.

Molly didn't say anything. She kept her arms wrapped protectively around herself and waited for the man she cared very much about to walk out of her life. Sherlock leaned over and softly planted a kiss on her cheek, much like a brother would give a sister.

"Good-bye, Molly."

The End


	7. Chapter 7

Molly sighed as she twisted her neck around, trying to relieve the tension between her shoulders. There were a stack of papers waiting at her desk. They could wait until morning. This one however could not. She thumbed through the pages on her clipboard, orders direct from New Scotland Yard. A full autopsy would take half the night and she didn't even have any crisps. Or coffee. She desperately needed coffee.

Two doors opened suddenly behind her and she whirled around, her heart beating like a bird against her neck. The clipboard fell out of her arms. It lay between them like the lines on a map, the scattered papers marking out clear borders.

She knew she looked older than when she first left Uni. It was inevitable, this age thing. It was why she hated birthdays. Who wanted to celebrate coming closer to death? Everyone had thought she was morbid. The man now standing in front of her had called her clever.

"Don't do that autopsy! I need a look at the body. Have you inspected the…."

He was still thin and his hair was still raven black and lush with curls. It was his eyes that had changed. They were older. That piercing blue gaze had become colder and more distant. It broke her heart to be on the receiving end of it. She had to say something, anything, to break the silence between them.

"I know I look a little different. I grew out my hair. You probably don't even remember me. I'll be quiet now," she ended with a stutter.

Sherlock's eyes went wide and then softened. It was like watching the sea after a storm. It felt familiar and safe. Here was the young man that had offered her adventure, distraction, and understanding. She wasn't sure what she'd ever offered him besides company. She certainly didn't think of herself as a diversion from the mundane. That was why he'd needed drugs. And then he'd needed more. It had to be six years since she'd seen him last.

She bent down to retrieve her papers. Molly didn't expect him to help and he didn't. He did pull out a bag of crisps from his coat pocket.

"How did you know?" she asked, quickly tearing them open.

"The meager cafeteria food leaves few options at this late hour," he said.

Molly ate them one at a time, licking her fingers after each bite. Sherlock's gaze darted to her fingers then back to her face.

"Why do you think it's meager?" she asked.  
"It's hospital food. Isn't it always?"

He looked down at her with that half smile she still remembered, the one that meant he was amused but trying not to show it. He'd been gone years instead of weeks this time. It didn't matter. It was as if their friendship had been put in some holding pattern and was now allowed to continue.

"These weren't for you, were they?" she said, holding up the empty bag of crisps.

"I can't eat. I'm on a case," Sherlock replied.

"Alright then."

They both stared at each other until Molly broke out in a wide grin.

"Let's have a look at that body," she said.

"After you Molly Hooper."


End file.
